


Captured

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cameras, Canon Relationships, Cute, Developing Relationship, F/M, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Jane doesn't sit alone for almost five weeks. Instead, she and Edmund deepen their relationship, beginning with a museum lecture, at which they don't expect to find each other.Diverges from canon after "Threads of Silk and Gold" (S2E5).





	1. Capture Life

Edmund entered the lecture late--investigation of a robbery had kept him--and slunk to a seat in the last row, his cheeks warm with the embarrassment of a tardy schoolboy.

The lecturer’s voice boomed throughout the room. “...and the first use of animation to portray…”

But for himself, the row was empty, until a woman took up the seat beside him. A woman in a blue frock. He saw as much as he could, in his peripheral vision, but dared not look at her properly.

The woman’s scent, however--her faint, but clear scent--drew his attention, and he inhaled deeply through his nose. Lilac. Lilac in spring, in full bloom. Sunny, and fresh, and natural.

He closed his eyes, bowing his head. He had not inhaled the scent of a woman at such a close distance in months. He bit his lip, imaging what it might be like to slide his hands over soft, smooth skin. Or touch his lips to a woman’s neck--a woman he loved--and taste her.

“Edmund?”

The sound of his own name made him twitch with surprise. He snapped his head to his left to look upon the owner of the voice that whispered his name with such _familiarity._

Her blue eyes met his with happiness and affection. Jane.

Somehow, he possessed the breath to speak. “Miss Cobden.”

“...can anticipate that by the end of this century…”

“Jane, please.” She flashed a smile, tender and kind.

He stared at her, spread his hands over his knees, then clasped the fabric of his trousers.

“...we can expect to see a film…”

Edmund blinked, finally whispering, “Miss—” He pressed his lips together, briefly closed his eyes, and exhaled through his nose. “Jane. Do you--are you particularly interested in photography?” His heart beat faster, as if it threw itself against his breastbone, over and over, to remind him that he tread on a young, unfamiliar foundation.

Her smile broadened. Compassion softened her features. “Yes. I was recently presented with a new model of the Kodak, not yet on the market. Political life has _some_ advantages, it would seem.” She turned toward him. Her knee nearly made contact with his own knee and the hand that covered it.

He swallowed. “Ah,” he said. “And you hope to become more familiar with its mechanics?”

“And acquaint myself with its proper operation.”

“So you might make use of it.”

“And capture images of my first subject,” she whispered, her gloved fingers tracing the back of his hand. “Indeed.”

His jaw slackened as he glanced down to watch the path of her fingers, to confirm her touch was real. His chest rose and fell with fast, shallow breaths. He blinked several times at her hand, now curling around his, before he raised his eyes to find her looking at him.

The lecturer spoke with a near-yell. “If I may draw _your attention_ to—”

They snapped apart and faced forward, as if they had just been reprimanded. Neither moved for several minutes. Edmund curled the lecture advert into a narrow, stiff tube with sweat-damp hands. Heat engulfed his whole body and a thin layer of sweat coated him--a sheen on his skin. He did not process a single word the lecturer said.

Jane, not he, was the braver of them and resumed their conversation first. "What brings _you_ here, Inspector?"

Without averting his eyes from the lecturer, he whispered, “A case of mine, a couple years past now, involved this very thing.”

“What? Photography?”

“Yes, the photographer--I remember his name. It was Mr. Crighton. He...invented a mechanism, a _cam_ era that could capture _life._ ” He paused, a memory passing through his mind. “Life as we see it. And could...repeat it back to us. It was...a repulsive, _terri_ ible crime he was involved in, but--”

“Fascinating?”

“Yes.” He finally looked at her, met her eyes with admiration. She understood. Somehow, she understood. “Fascinating, nonetheless. The technology was extraordinary.”

“What happened to it?”

“The camera?”

“Yes.”

Once again, he faced forward, so as not to draw unwanted attention from the lecturer. “He burned it. Along with himself.”

“Oh, God.”

He chanced a glimpse of her. She had bowed her head. Her hand rested flat against her stomach. “I’m sorry. It is a grisly situation to imagine.”

“No, no.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” she said. “Yes. It is. I cannot deny that.” A soft smile plumped her cheeks. “But I still like to hear of it. Your work.”

He released a half-laugh, an exhale of breath, as he searched her face. He looked for signs of distress. Of displeasure. Of repulsion. He saw, however, thoughtfulness. Curiosity.

“It brought us to the truth,” he said, reaching for her hand.

She nodded. “The truth.” She accepted his hand, grasping it. Her thumb slid across his knuckles. Her fingers stroked the underside of his wrist. “Perhaps sometimes we need to see reality shown to us to acknowledge the truth of it.”

His breath stalled, stuttered in his throat. He closed his eyes.

Her touch sent jolts of breath-stopping sensation through him. It nearly made him emit an audible sound--a heave of relief. A breathless, struck gasp. Of its own accord, his mind traveled to places wherein neither he nor Jane were clothed. Where they were both bare and open to each other. Where he could feel her, taste her, hear her--

“It is surprising, at times.”

He blinked, then focused on her. “What is?”

“The truth of reality,” she said, cupping his face with her hand.

Edmund squeezed the fingers that still held his hand. “Jane,” he whispered. “Jane, you are--”

“Shh,” she breathed. “Edmund. I ask for no--”

“I know, but you--”

“Truly, you need not--”

“You are so smart,” he uttered. He needed to say the words in his head. He _needed_ to let her know what he thought of her. “And quick.” He wet his lips, holding her gaze. “And beautiful.”

“Edmund...”

For the first time since he had known her, a blush crept across her cheeks. His chest warmed at the sight of it.

“You are,” he insisted. “You are...special. Unique.” He dropped his head and squeezed her hand hard. “I’m in lo--”

“You, there, in the back. Is there anything you wish to add?” The lecturer gestured to them. Edmund felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

They both sat up, at attention, like naughty children.

“Yes, I was wondering,” Jane said, standing, her voice clear and loud, “how you believe this technology will advance. What we can hope to see in the future."

As she resumed her seat, Edmund gave her a grateful smile.

She returned it, taking his hand again and squeezing it.

As the lecturer launched into a reply, Edmund studied Jane’s face. Took note of her eyes--light, like a winter sky. A contrast to her hair--as dark as the coffee he took in the morning. He leaned towards her, his attention on her.

She met his eyes, bit her bottom lip, and trailed her finger along his thigh for the remainder of the lecture. All in silence.

When the lecture ended, Jane curved her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer to her.

Edmund felt her lips brush his ear as she whispered her address.

“Arrive no later than seven o’clock.”

The heat of her breath made him shiver. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth--devoting all of his energy to holding himself back--as she kissed his ear.

“Please be there, Edmund,” she whispered, then pressed her lips to his cheek.

He sat frozen. He wanted to nod. Wanted to kiss her mouth. Wanted to speak, to tell her that _yes, yes, he would be there._

But he remained still, stunned, as she stood and left the hall.


	2. A Safe Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane experiences a range of surprising emotions when Edmund arrives at her home for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My endless thanks to everyone who has been reading and following this story. I truly appreciate any comments and feedback--they're so valuable to me. But even if you don't leave a comment, I hope you enjoy!

Jane’s face had never before burned with such heat. As she left the lecture hall, a violent storm of emotion broke within her throat. Embarrassment, anticipation, desire, fear. 

She scolded herself for her boldness as she boarded the hansom. He must think her a harlot. At best, an indecent woman. _Decent_ women did not _demand_ the presence of men she barely knew—not in _public,_ least of all in her _home._ Yet, _she_ had demanded that Edmund arrive at her home by seven o’clock, with no explanation as to why. 

Her mind spun a story of all the purposes—all ill-befitting for a city councilor and lady of society—that must have occurred to him. Her cheeks and ears radiated with hot embarrassment.

She would not be surprised if she never saw him again. 

But she could not, however, afford to take chances. When she arrived at her home, a three-story house in the heart of Kensington, she warned her housemaid, Martha, that a gentleman—she had nearly said _“handsome gentleman”_ but had censored herself—named Edmund Reid was due to arrive for dinner. 

Martha—bless her kind, faithful heart—nodded without judgement and said, “Of course, Miss Jane. Does the gentleman enjoy shellfish?” 

“I—” Jane paused. Despite her girlish infatuation with Mr. Reid—despite the fact that she had nosed around in his professional record _and_ that she had memorized the boundaries of H Division’s jurisdiction—she had to admit that she knew very little of his personal habits and preferences. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” She offered Martha an apologetic smile. “Perhaps keep to poultry.” 

“A safe choice, ma’am,” Martha said, then scuttled off—like a crab herself—as Jane scrutinized the state of her house. While Martha prepared dinner, Jane set the table. She wiped the dust from the windowsills and furniture. She adjusted picture frames on mantels and pillows on sofas. 

She nearly leapt out of her skin when a firm knock resounded through the ground floor at six-forty in the evening. 

Edmund swept his hat off his head and bowed at the waist when she opened the door. “I am early,” he uttered, following the statement with a closed-mouth—but fond—grin. “Forgive me.” 

“Edmund,” she replied, dumbly, stupidly. At a loss, for once in her life. She breathed a nervous laugh and, with her hand on the doorframe, smiled, just as nervously. 

His grin stretched into a genuine smile—his teeth visible, his eyes clear and bright. “Jane.” 

The easy manner with which he spoke her name—with no tension or hesitation—made her inhale a surprised but joyful breath. Disoriented butterflies took flight in her stomach and collided with her insides. She almost spread her hand across her body to calm herself, but public life had prepared her to cover her weaknesses. So she forced herself to stand tall and returned Edmund’s smile with her own—as natural as she could make it.

“Please, come in.” She stepped aside, clearing a path for him. 

She wondered why he walked past her, only to stop so close to her. He did not know the way, she realized. He had never been inside her house. 

She did her best to dismiss the shiver that made her whole body stutter as she brushed past him and inhaled the warm, spicy scent of him. “This way, if you please, Inspector.” To her own ears, her voice barely functioned—it broke amid vowels and skipped over consonants. But she maintained her finest veneer and swept her arm across her body—a feeble direction toward the dinner table. 

A cloud of crackly tension seemed to settle between them. Edmund stood beside her dinner table, partially obscured by this fog, his expression fuzzy as he turned his hat in his hands. 

She wondered, at that moment, protected by that layer of mist, if he had expected some _hospitality_ other than dinner. 

In the lecture hall, she had touched and kissed him with a brazenness she rarely allowed herself to show. Shame threatened to crawl up the back of her neck, cover her head, and smother her, but, with extreme effort, she steeled herself and extended her hand. “May I take your coat and hat? I assume you would like to stay for the meal itself.” 

“Uh, yes. Yes. Thank you.” He shed his coat and handed it to her. He parted with his hat last. She noticed how he followed her movements as she hung it beside his coat.

When she returned to stand beside him, he tried to pretend his attention had been focused elsewhere. She saw that he looked upon a piece of art—an oil painting—that adorned the wall. A pleasant, intricate landscape. It boasted an abundance of texture and color, but portrayed a simple subject: a field of wildflowers at sunset. 

“This was painted by my sister,” Jane shared, touching the canvas. 

Edmund stayed planted, but raised his eyebrows in interest. “Ah,” he said, the corner of his mouth a-twitch with a smile. “So visual arts run in the family, then, do they?” 

She dropped her hand to her side and tilted her head. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“Why not?” He stepped toward her. 

Her heart rose. She smiled. “Well. Perhaps because I have not yet tried my hand at them.” 

The corners of his eyes crinkled with a soft, tentative smile. 

Jane wet her lips. She noticed then how Edmund bit his bottom lip. How he mirrored the tilt of her head. How his throat moved as he swallowed. How his eyes never left hers. 

She walked to the table, warmth spreading across her body. “Would you like to sit, Mr. Reid? Dinner will be served shortly.” 

Once he seated himself, he leaned forward. Jane found herself aware of every sliver of space that existed--or did not, due to his posture and position. 

“How is it fair,” he said, “that you insist that I call you ‘Jane’ while you still call me ‘Mr. Reid’?” 

“Well,” she replied. “Women have been asking about fairness for _ages_ , Mr. Reid. Yet men have paid their concerns little attention.” 

At that moment, Martha entered and filled their glasses with wine. Edmund thanked her housemaid--the only moment in which his gaze wavered from Jane’s face. 

She blushed. A voice in the recesses of her mind berated her—for compensating for her earlier recklessness with a modest that felt forced, for arguing with an attractive, respectable man. A man who seemed to tolerate her. Who seemed to tolerate her and her politics. Her unconventional attitude. 

Not merely _tolerate_ , no. Enjoy. 

En _joy_ her. 

When Martha left them, Edmund resumed the conversation. His elbows settled on the table. He seemed to want to eliminate as much space between them as possible. “But if we are to strive for equality, then perhaps we should not address one another on unequal terms.” 

“Yes,” she said, sipping her wine. “Yes, of course. You’re right.” 

“What will it be, then? ‘Jane’ or ‘Miss Cobden’?” 

“Jane, of course. As I’ve insisted, Inspect—” She paused, embarrassed. “Edmund.” 

He practically _glow_ ed with satisfaction. She had, it seemed, given him the answer he wanted to hear. His smile spread across his face with ease; he watched her with transparent affection. When he spoke, he sounded breathless, as if their discourse had required an immense physical effort. “I only--” He stopped for a moment to draw a deep breath and extend his arm across the table. His hand came to rest only inches from her plate. She followed the tips of his fingers as they played with the tablecloth. “Jane,” he continued, his voice thin but warm. “I only meant to tease you. I did not intend to make you uncomfortable.” 

Her eyes widened and back straightened. She answered immediately. “You have not.” 

“You are certain?”

“I am.” With a smile, her posture relaxed, and she reached for his hand. She slipped her hand underneath his and gripped his last three fingers, her hand too small to take hold of all four. She saw his lips part and his shoulders rise and fall with uneven breaths. He seemed to stare at their joined hands with vague terror in his eyes, as if he were afraid that if he looked away her hand may disappear. When he finally lifted his eyes to hers, she added with honeyed reassurance, “Quite certain.” 

She ended their moment of contact when Martha returned with their dinner: roast chicken and root vegetables. Jane inhaled the rich herbal scent of rosemary and thyme as Martha laid the main course between them. 

But for Edmund’s remarks about the kindness of her invitation and the quality of the meal, he spoke very little as they ate. Jane, despite her usual vivaciousness, fell into a nervous silence. In all her time on this earth, she had rarely felt such anxiety over a man. Her confidence always controlled, and she clawed, at that moment, to revive it. She would force it to resurface, if she must; she had done it many times. 

With most of their dinner eaten, she finally lowered her fork and knife, and raised her head. “Edmund,” she said. No shudder in her voice. No weakness in her tone. She smiled, pleased with herself. “I want to apologize.” 

Edmund set his utensils on his plate and looked to her, eyebrows drawn close together with confusion.

“For this ill-conceived effort to--” 

“No, no, Jane, it’s--”

“I can only imagine what you must have thought.” 

“What I _thought_?”

She nodded. “When I first extended the invitation.” 

His expression softened. “Well, I did not think you planned to treat me to so fine a dinner. Rather, only that you wanted to show me this new camera of yours.” 

“Oh!” She threw her napkin onto the table, happy for the reminder. “Yes, I did mention that, did I not?” She rushed from the room and returned with the camera. “It is just here. I still need to acquaint myself with its operation. Unfortunately, the lecture did little to enrich my knowledge of it.” 

Edmund stood and met her near the door. Only the camera put space between them. When she peered at his face, she could see a line of freckles at his hairline, too faint to see at a distance, a new detail of his person.

She found that his casual proximity renewed, rather than reduced, her confidence. She flashed him a smile and lifted the camera. “You are welcome to make a closer in _spect_ ion.” 

Her chest opened and allowed her space to breathe fully when he uttered a laugh--a quiet exhale of delight--and reached for the camera. “You said this model was not--not yet--” His speech stuttered and stopped as she handed over the camera, as the skin of her hands brushed his. He nearly dropped the camera, juggling it for a moment before he acquired a firm grip on it. 

Smiling widely, she chided him, “Careful now, Inspector.” 

He expelled fast breaths and held the camera to his chest, safe. Seeing his nervous, unsteady behavior, a rush of visceral satisfaction and affection coursed within her. She closed the distance between them and, as she curved one hand around his arm, she pointed at the camera with the other. “You can see here, the aperture,” she said, then squeezed his arm with gentle pressure. “It opens more than the Kodak currently on the market.” 

She saw his throat bob with his swallow. “Really?” he croaked. 

“Indeed. The shutter is faster as well, and allows the user to capture faster movement.” Her comfort level jettisoned skyward with each of his palpable, obvious reactions. With a gentle grin, she studied the rosy flush that tinted his cheek. 

“It is remarkable.” Edmund could not have been more clear about the ‘ _it_ ’ to which he referred; as he spoke, he stared at her face, never the camera, which he still cradled to his chest. 

Jane beamed. “Do you think so?” 

“I do.” 

Gravitated toward him by his fast but sincere response, she stood on her toes and steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder. But the hollow chime of the stand-up clock in the corner startled her and sent her back down to her feet. 

Eight o’clock. 

Edmund’s head whipped around to afford him a view of the time. With a frown, he thrust the camera at her and, as she took it, he uttered with a strain, “I’m afraid I must go.”

“So soon?” Jane could not cover the sadness and disappointment in her voice. She had hoped to talk more, to learn more of him. Kiss him. Touch him with a flat, open hand. Make love to him on the sofa, on her bed--wherever they landed--and hear how he sounded, see how he looked, at the height of his pleasure. 

She wanted to know him. 

She wanted to _be_ with him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

As she turned away, intending to retreat behind her dinner chair, he lurched forward and caught her hand. “Jane. _Jane_.” He squeezed her fingers, all of them. “Jane.” 

When she found his eyes, she saw that he searched her face. His expression was crinkled, pained--and she allowed herself to breathe, relieved. 

“Thank you,” he said, clasping her hand in both of his. “This was lovely. This was _won_ derful.” 

She nodded. 

“It is not merely an excuse. I really do…” He stepped close to her and, as he had with her camera, held her hand against his chest. “I must return to the station.” 

“Yes, of course.” She forced a smile. Another nod. She had no reason to doubt him, but uncertainty nevertheless flickered within her. 

“I would stay,” he whispered, bowing his head to bring their faces nearer to one another. “I _wish_ to stay, but—” 

“But you cannot,” she finished for him, simple and matter-of-fact. 

With a deep breath, he shook his head. His thumb stroked her hand—constant, nervous movement. 

Jane saw the insecurity in his eyes. She did not wish to see him leave, but she especially did not wish to see him leave with the impression that she begrudged him the obligations of his profession. “I understand, Edmund. I do. My occupation will no doubt call me away from you at one time or another.” 

His body sagged with relief. But he did not leave until he pressed first one kiss, then another, to the back of her hand. He closed his eyes as his lips—and, for a second, the heat of his tongue—touched her skin. He kept them closed when he turned his face to lay his cheek over the still-hot skin he had kissed. Jane barely breathed. 

She watched the details of his body fade into a silhouette as he walked away from her door, trying to calm the frantic beat of her heart, wondering when she might see him again.


	3. Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edmund solicits the help of his least favorite journalist and is surprised by the result.

Over the course of the next two days, Edmund’s attention swung like a pendulum between his duties and daydreams of Jane. 

He might have allowed himself to daydream longer, but his most recent case, an abduction of a young boy last seen amid the shops of Commercial Street, had attracted the interest of Fred Best. 

Edmund had hunched over his desk, allowing his forehead to fall into his hand, when Best had barged into his office. Unannounced. Unanticipated. As usual. 

Now, Edmund did his best to summon his civility; he knew he would accomplish _nothing_ with rudeness, not now. Not when Best glared at him with all the murderous intent of a--well, a murderer--and inflated his chest to appear as strong-man-like and imposing as possible. Now  _that_ was unusual for Best.

Something was amiss. Something had happened. 

And Edmund decided that he should learn of it, rather than dismiss it. 

So he stood and extended his arm to the unoccupied chair opposite his desk. “Mr. Best,” he said. “Have a seat.” 

“Inspector,” Best said, tense. He pressed his teeth together with visible force. “You know for why I am here?” 

“I do not,” Edmund admitted. 

In the fifteen minutes that followed, Edmund spoke not a word. Instead, he listened to Best’s less-than-succinct rampage concerning the missing boy, his family, and possible leads. Edmund made notes, which seemed to impress Best enough to calm him. From then on, Best spoke with a quieter, more measured tone. His posture relaxed. Eventually, he leaned against the back of his chair. 

He even _thanked_ Edmund. “Thank you, Inspector,” Best mumbled. “For listening. I know you are a busy man. Any constable could have taken my statements.” 

“Mr. Best,” Edmund said, laying down his pen. “There are times I would throttle you for your _rash_ inter _f_ _er_ ence in my investigations.” He paused, tilting his head. “But not today.” 

Best dropped his chin, having the good sense to display a certain measure of humility. 

“Today, you have provided me with useful information, and I thank you.” 

Best nodded, then stood up to leave. 

“But before you leave,” Edmund said, chasing after him. “I hope you might yet be a source of valuable information, separate from this investigation.” 

“What sort of information?” Best asked, intrigued enough to pause at the door. 

Edmund hesitated, but after a moment chose to pursue his original line of inquiry. “I seek information,” he said, lowering his voice, despite their solitude, “about box cameras.” 

A happy smile stretched across Best’s insufferable face. “Does the Inspector have a newfound interest in photography?” 

“No,” Edmund insisted. “ _No_. I merely...it is for a case,” he said. 

Best’s eyebrows twitched. His smile grew. 

Edmund wanted, with all of his being, to push Best from his office, but he squeezed his eyes shut and set his jaw. He inhaled a deep breath, conjuring images of Jane--gorgeous, beautiful, _whip-smart_ Jane--and waited. 

“Yes. Yes, of course. Anything, for a _case_ ,” Best said--an obvious taunt. "How might I help you, Inspector?"

Edmund remained still and silent. His mind continued to envision Jane. Her wide, easy smile, full of playful affection. The light, floral scent of her when she stood near him. The tone of her voice--challenging, daring, bold. Brave. He felt as though he could _see_ the determined beating of her heart, almost defiant, when he walked alongside her in the street. She stunned him. 

And Best seemed to know it. Perhaps not about _Jane_ herself, but about the effect she had on him. "Inspector?" Best prodded. "Shall I step outside a moment and leave you alone with your fantasy?" 

Edmund wondered if it were so obvious to everyone around him. He feared it was. But he drew a deep breath and met Best's eyes. “Do you possess such knowledge, or should I consult another? A _proper_ expert?” 

“No, no,” Best said, his smile exuding smugness and inside knowledge. Edmund shifted his weight from foot to foot. “They are simple enough machines, and I know them well.” 

“Good. Well. I will update you on the particulars of this missing boy when you send me a guide on how one might operate a box camera. Quid pro quo, as you say.” 

“Very well, Inspector. Very well.” Best looked him up and down, as if expecting to uncover some sort of clue as to his inner-mind's workings. “You’ve learned to play the game, I see. Much respect to you, sir.” 

Best tipped his hat, then took his leave, throwing open the door of Edmund’s office and skipping down the stairs to the first floor. Edmund gripped the edge of the door and watched him go, hoping that Best would follow through on their bargain. 

A day later, he did. 

An entire booklet arrived on Edmund’s desk, detailing the proper operation of a box camera. It included an appendix of the camera’s history and its likely progression. Edmund studied it for some time before he repackaged it, scrawled onto it Jane’s address, and sent it off with the outgoing post. 

A day after _that_ , Jane herself appeared in his office doorway. 

He nearly fell upon his desk as he tried to stand up and greet her, fumbling over his own feet. He felt like his teenage self, clumsy and too-long-limbed. “Jane.” 

“Good day, Edmund,” she said, all poise and composure. 

He blinked at her, reassuring himself that she was not an illusion. His gaze dropped to her hand, which held the booklet that, only a day ago, had fallen upon his desk. 

“I cannot imagine,” she said without additional preamble, “who else might have sent this to me. It was you, was it not?”

He stared at her for a moment, then lowered his chin to his chest--as far as it would reach. “Yes," he whispered.

A smile blossomed on Jane’s face. It made him want to kiss her. To gather her into his arms and squeeze her, hug her, press her close to him so that he might feel the lines and curves of her body. 

As she stepped away from the door, he stumbled toward her. He caught himself, slamming his hand on the corner of this desk and raising his eyes to her. She laughed, and so did he, shaking his head. 

“Oh, Edmund,” she said, reaching for him. Her hand curled around his arm, his triceps. His eyes fluttered down to look at her hand, there. Touching him. 

His breath stuttered. He managed to regain control of himself and stand straight and tall. “I hope it was useful,” he said, nodding toward the booklet. 

“It was,” she said, her eyes bright and clear. “It was indeed. Thank you.” 

Edmund had to summon every scrap of restraint as Jane leaned toward him and laid a light, gentle kiss to his cheek. His eyes closed. His heart beat with a frantic, irregular rhythm. God. _God. He loved her. He loved her._ “I...Jane, I…” He opened his eyes and swallowed. Swallowed his saliva, his sentiments, his words. “You’re most welcome.” 

Jane’s head tilted to the side as she looked at him. Her eyes seemed to sparkle as they caught the sunlight. “Would you meet me for breakfast tomorrow?” 

He blinked, refocusing. “What?” 

“Breakfast,” she repeated. “Tomorrow. We can walk together. From your office, if you wish.” The way she ended her statement seemed like a question, as if she were unsure, and Edmund’s heart constricted. 

He wanted to tell her that she had nothing--not one thing--about which to be unsure. But instead, he nodded. 

“Eight o’clock?” she asked. 

Again, he nodded, suddenly mute. 

“Wonderful,” she said. Then she smiled. A warm, full smile that reached her eyes. 

Edmund again felt compelled to kiss her, to press himself against her. But he could do no more than nod. Yet again.

“Until then, my dear Edmund,” Jane whispered, trailing her fingertips along his arm--first his elbow, then his forearm, and finally his hand. 

He shivered, searching her eyes. He replayed her words. _My dear Edmund._ His stomach tensed. His lungs seemed to shrink, making him feel short of air, as he watched her turn and leave his office, strands of her dark hair aloft on the faint, invisible breeze that meandered through the station, as if it was meant for her.


	4. Through the Viewfinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane takes Edmund home after their breakfast date and sees him in new ways.

Later that day, Edmund had asked to meet her at the restaurant instead of the station house. She’d agreed, somewhat crestfallen. She had looked forward to the opportunity to walk with him. To see him in the sunlight. To observe the natural highlights in his hair, the subtle shades of his eyes. 

But the opportunity had not entirely evaporated forever. 

She took advantage of the chance to observe him on the way out of the restaurant, steering him away from Leman Street and towards her house. 

His smile sent flutters around her heart, like topsy-turvy hummingbirds taking flight within her chest. The way he looked at her--with less-than-genuine admonishment, followed by helpless delight--made her want to push him into the nearest alley, press him against a wall, and taste the coffee and French toast on his lips. 

During their meal, she had teased him for ordering so sweet a breakfast. But he had defended his choice--it was one he never allowed himself to enjoy in his own home. The dish was too decadent for everyday eating, topped with cream and handfuls of fresh berries. Hand-crushed preserves sat in a tiny dish beside the evenly-browned slices of bread. “Eggy bread,” Edmund had called it. Not a name unknown to her, although she preferred to call it “gypsy bread,” a more mysterious name. They had spent the next fifteen minutes debating the merits of each name--a lighthearted argument that she had almost certainly won. 

Only a street away from the restaurant, Jane fulfilled her own fantasy as she stopped and pulled him by his lapels into a sudden, surprise kiss. Although not against an alley wall, she kissed him deeply, slipping her tongue past his lips to taste him, discovering not the flavor of French toast itself, but hints of raspberry. 

She nearly erupted with laughter when she stepped backwards and caught his wide-eyed, stunned expression. When she took hold of his hand, she pressed and rubbed her fingers into the space between the bones there before resuming their walk. 

Edmund stumbled over his words, grimacing as if they pained him, “I, uh, I should return to my work.” 

“Should? Or must?” she asked. She knew that she pushed him, but she also knew that he needed it. Left to his own ways, Edmund would take few risks. He would obey his obligations, rather than listen to his own wishes. She endeavored to assist him with his choices. 

Her chest glowed with satisfaction when he glanced at her, and replied, “Should.” Gratitude imbued his voice. 

“And if I said you ‘ _must_ ’ accompany me home, what would you say?” 

“I would say…” He slowed his walk and paused to look at her. His expression softened as he tilted his head. The corner of his mouth danced with the start of a smile. His fingers gently squeezed her hand. “I would say ‘it would be my pleasure.’” 

“Indeed,” she said, beaming. “And you would be correct.” 

She fell silent as they continued, listening to the _click_ s and _pat_ s of their shoes on the stones. She observed him then, as she had wanted to, taking in the details of his face in the intermittent sunshine. She catalogued the natural tones of his hair--mahogany and chestnut browns, even dark shades of amber when the breeze caused it to shift. Her eyes spied fine lines around his eyes, deeper lines across his forehead, and she resisted the impulse to trace them, to follow them--their exact paths, their tributaries and diversions. 

The underlying desire to absorb the details of his person did not fade by the time she unlocked her front door, so instead of offering him tea or showing him to her sitting room, she silently led him to her bedroom. 

When she closed the door of the room, she heard his swift, short inhale as he crushed her against the wall. She felt how his body arched, curved, _pushed_. How he seemed to seek out contact with her, his hands on her hips and his mouth on her neck. 

She welcomed it, pushing back, _kissing_  back, steering him to her bed. 

He breathed hard, falling upon the mattress. She smiled, watching him kick off his shoes and struggle with his coat. She could not remember when or where he had lost his hat. 

She put the thought from her mind and took advantage of his position, pressing her hands to his shoulders and forcing him down to lay flat underneath her. 

Jane’s gaze flickered to his parted lips, his open mouth. She watched how his eyes closed, then reopened--the speed at which he blinked seemed impossibly slow. But she was glad of it, following the movement of his eyelashes, watching with a soft grin as his thick, dark lashes kissed his face, which already radiated with a pink mottle.

She kissed him then, feeling--more than hearing--the hum that escaped him. He opened his mouth, again and again for her, accepting her advances--the insistent slip-slide of her tongue and the demanding pressure of her touch, her hands on his shoulders, his neck, his face. 

“Jane _._ ” He whispered so softly that she barely heard him. He wrapped his hands around her wrists and waited until she stilled. “I love you.” 

“Oh, Edmund.” She searched his eyes. “Really?”

He nodded, then buried his face into the curve of her neck. “I want you.” 

She shuddered with faint pleasure-tingles as he curled his arms around her, held her tightly, and rolled his hips upwards to press himself against her. Hard _\--_ and _ready_ \--for her. 

“Jane, please.” 

The moments that followed saw a stretch of frantic, desperate movements. Fingers fumbling with buttons. Wet, open mouths missing their marks. Teeth scraping across skin. Enthusiasm and eager tugs causing threads to tear at their weakest point.

Eventually, they lay beside each other, naked. Jane reached out to touch him.  

She wrapped her hand around him and watched as his eyes closed, as his chin tilted toward the ceiling, as his lips parted to make way for shallow, fast breaths. She pumped him slowly, relishing the way his hips rose, the way he sought her touch. The way he threw his head to the side and groaned, loud and unrestrained. 

With the briefest glance at his eyes, she lowered her head and closed her lips around his shaft. His immediate, helpless response gratified her, and, in her memory, she filed away the desperation of his voice, the strain and tension in his muscles. She smoothed her hands along his hips, over his abdomen, and up his ribs. He shuddered and trembled, responding vocally, _physic_ ally to every flick and stroke of her tongue. 

She sucked at him with unpracticed zeal, her cheeks hollowing. He tasted--surprisingly--clean and flavorless. She expected a musky, heavy taste, but it never settled on her tongue; she wondered if he bathed with intention that morning, but kept her thoughts to herself. 

When his voice jumped an octave and he twisted, his hands on her shoulders, she straightened up and wiped at her mouth. 

Her gaze swung to his face, and she found his eyes closed but his mouth open. He panted, licked his lips, flexed his hands on the bedcovers. 

“Dear Edmund,” she cooed, quiet and gentle, settling herself against his side. “You look as though you’re trying to gather yourself.” Her fingertips trailed over his chest. She smiled when his body twitched. “Are you not in command of yourself?” she teased. 

A puff of air left him, equal parts exasperated and amused. “You truly are a politician,” he gasped, with barely enough breath for his words. “Deriving entertainment from torture.” 

Jane dragged her knuckles down his jawline. She pressed the pad of her thumb to the center of his bottom lip.

When he closed his lips and kissed her thumb, maintaining steady eye contact, she gulped at the air. Her stomach tensed. She squeezed her thighs together, conscious of her own eagerness, her own readiness. 

Edmund moved with an abruptness that surprised her. Within seconds, he swapped their positions and loomed over her. He held her down with his large, warm body and held her gaze, even as he entered her. 

She promised herself she would not avert her eyes. She would not be the first of the two of them to break their eye contact. And she was not. 

She grinned when she saw his eyelids fall, when his head dipped to her shoulder and his hand gripped hers-- _squeezed_ it. She gasped, her grin disappearing, as he rocked forward with a hard, deep thrust. 

His name skittered off of her lips. 

He withdrew and pushed forward. Harder, grunting. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathed. 

“ _Ah_.” His voice shot into her ear. High-pitched. “ _Jane._ ” He raised his head to look at her. His eyes seemed so much darker now--with his pupils expanded, surrounded only by a thin circle of blue. 

Ignoring the uneven, soft, scarred skin of his left shoulder, she flattened her hands over his shoulder blades. It was a topic for another time. Not for now. Not when he nuzzled his face against her neck, his hot breath streaming over her skin. Not when he pressed kisses to her cheek, her temple, her ear--one after another, whispering her name between kisses, touching her wherever he could reach. Not when he angled himself to strike at her most sensitive place, over and over-- _God, over and over. Yes. Yes._

_“Yes.”_

She held him there, and as long as he moved, she gave him no choice; she _made_ him enter her at the same angle, her arms and legs clasped around him. “Yes. Edmund. There. Edmund, _there.”_

His moans leapt into her ear. His breaths broke. His kisses lingered a moment too long. His body jerked and spasmed with an uneven rhythm. 

He could not stop saying her name. “Jane. _Jane_. Uh, God. Jane.” 

Jane could barely draw her own breaths around the knot of ever-expanding love in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that she loved him, but Edmund pushed so deeply inside her that she moaned instead, arching beneath him, pressing a hand to the side of his face. 

Jane’s chest constricted when he turned into her touch and laid a soft kiss on her palm. She watched his lips form another series of words that seemed to accompany the rush of his breath. 

“I love you. Jane, I love you.” 

Even before his voice faded, a breathless noise escaped her, and she pulled him close. “Oh. Edmund,” she said, determined now to speak. To give words to the tight, pulsing warmth in her chest. Cupping the back of his head, she pulled his ear to her mouth and whispered to him. “You are _gorgeous,_ Edmund. You are _brill_ iant, and extraordinary. And I love you.” 

Then, with a sharp cry, he came, collapsing and shuddering against her. Mumbling and incoherent.

Jane stroked his hair. Her hand traveled all the way down his neck and spine, to the small of his back as she dropped light kisses on his shoulder. 

“I love you,” she whispered again, letting the words flow across his skin as they lay in each other’s lazy, blissful embrace. 

Edmund moved to his back beside her, then answered with a slow, deep kiss. 

When he made no attempt to leave, she inquired, “You are not required elsewhere, I take it?” 

“Not presently, no.” 

“But later?”

He nodded. “I must meet with a journalist, name of Best, to provide him with the latest information as regards a recent case.” 

She raised her eyebrows. 

“A boy, missing, now found, as of this morning.” 

“And this Best... it is Fred Best?” 

Edmund craned his neck, peering at her with surprise. “Do you know him?”

“I am aware of him. I cannot think of a single city councillor who is not.” 

“I would advise you to remain aware of him,” he said, settling back against the pillow. He took her hand, absently massaging her palm with his thumb. “Watch him closely.” 

“And why is that? Does he tend to be...troublesome?” 

“Frequently. Although, I’m afraid ‘troublesome’ is too generous a word.” 

“But he provided you with my booklet, did he not?”

He froze. “How did you--”

“His name is written on the back cover. Did you not notice?” 

“No.” 

“Ah, yes,” she said, smiling. She patted his chest. “Well, the people of Whitechapel are lucky to be under the protection of such a keen eye in their Inspector Reid.” 

He breathed through his nose, looking away, clearly embarrassed. 

“You are to meet with Best to carry out your side of this exchange of information, I take it? The booklet for the latest news?” 

He nodded. 

Her smile broadened. 

“What?” he finally asked, catching sight of her expression. 

“Negotiating with your enemies for the sake of my hobbies,” she teased, but genuine gratitude laced her voice. 

“For _you_ ,” he corrected. 

“It would be a shame, then, if I did not make use of the instructions you debased yourself to procure.” She knew his eyes followed her as she moved across the room, opened the booklet, and took up the camera. 

Meeting his eyes, she found them filled with suspicion. She ignored it and approached him, camera in hand. 

“Jane?” He pulled the bedcovers over his chest. “What are you doing?”

“Making use of the instructions.” 

He held out a hand in a useless effort to keep her away with--she could only guess--sheer power of will. She advanced on him, laughing as he scuttled across the bed. 

“Oh, stay _still_ , Edmund.” 

Then with a heavy _thud_ , he fell off the side of the bed and onto the floor. 

She peered through the viewfinder and pressed the lever as soon as half of his head popped into view. 

His eyebrows drew close together, suggesting a hidden scowl. “Did you--”

“Take a photograph?” She smiled and spoke with as much sweetness and innocence as she could manufacture. “No, of course not.” 

“ _Of course not_ ,” he scoffed, diving behind the cover of the bed. 

She heard the shuffle of movement--clothes and the weight of his body. Occasional _thump_ s and wispy sounds of fabric over skin. When he emerged standing, he resembled a vaudeville clown; he had left most of his shirt buttons undone--only _now_ did he attempt to fasten them--and his shirt seemed to dwarf him, draped over him with haphazard creases and folds. Only the back clasps of his braces were attached to his trousers, leaving the braces themselves to bounce off his chest any time he moved. 

At the moment, he stood relatively still, fighting with his buttons. She captured another photograph. 

At the soft _click_ of the camera, he raised his head, his eyes wide and mouth agape. 

Biting her bottom lip, she pressed the lever again. 

“Jane!” he shouted. True anger did not permeate his tone, but it was _sat_ urated with frustration. “Uh, I--just remembered--” he said, sudden and stilted. “I am needed--at the station house. Yes. At the station house.” He spoke as if he were trying to convince him _self_ , not Jane. He gathered the rest of his clothes in his arms and made for the door. “Yes, Bennet...he, uh...he asked for my help, and I should...go.” 

“Edmund, wait,” she said, her voice skipping with her laughter. “Please.” She set the camera on her bedside table and chased after him. She met him at the door, curling her hand around his forearm. “Don’t go.” 

“I have to go.” 

“You do _not_ have to go.” 

“But I _do_.” 

“I promise I will not _touch_ the camera for the remainder of the day,” she said, lowering her chin and her voice, squeezing his arm. “Please stay, Edmund.” 

He let his head fall, as if he hoped to rest it on the bundle of clothes in his arms. He released a heavy exhale, his eyes scanning the floor, the walls, the bed--everywhere but her face. 

When she laid a kiss on his cheek, she felt his resistance crumble. He let her take the clothes from his arms, mirroring her smile before swiping the camera from the table. “It is your turn, I think,” he said. 

Over the next few hours, they swapped roles several times until, checking his watch, Edmund sobered and dropped a lingering kiss on her mouth. “Now I truly must go.” 

She kissed him again at the door, wrapped in a long silk robe. “I will call on you when I receive my prints.” 

“Sooner than that, I hope.” 

As he strode around the corner, Jane pushed the door closed and leaned against it for a long time, her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her breath caught in her throat.


	5. The Start of an Interim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane gets her prints back. Edmund pays her a short visit in her office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, and comments. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Much love to you.

Late on a Thursday, Jane arrived home from her office, opened her letterbox, and received the finished prints of her hand-held camera. 

They laid there, in her hand, clasped like a treasure that deserved to be encased in a museum. Some sort of never-before-seen phenomenon. A rose that bloomed before your eyes. Or a cloud that dispersed and thinned to air, as if by magic. 

And so, she looked upon images of Edmund. Edmund and herself. The only two subjects of the entire first roll. 

The last frame was an image of Edmund on his front side, lying in bed, his head--his shoulders, half of his back--exposed and naked. His hair flopped about his head--dark lines on the pillow. Sunlight filtered in through the window. Clear, sharp streaks struck his back when the curtains moved. She had awoken early in the morning to take it, unable to help herself, smiling with a smile that made her cheeks ache as she pushed the lever to snap the picture. When she had lowered the camera, she looked upon him with her own eyes--his still, sleeping body, the body she had touched and kissed and _loved_ one night previous. She tried to swallow, but it was as though a bone had caught in her throat--pointy and raw. “I love you,” she had whispered, hugging the camera to her body and forcing a painful breath into her lungs. 

Edmund had captured her in private moments, and her lips twitched as she studied his photographs. One, as she pinned her hair up, her arms raised above her head in awkward angles, an expression of concentration on her face. Another, when she fixed them tea, her face awash with off-white curls of steam and vapor. She had known about those two, had been aware of him as he snapped the photos. But of the last, she had not been conscious. This photograph, full of light and shadows, was almost abstract, but she knew her own outline. She felt a certain embarrassment as she studied the image. 

She would tell Edmund that he had a knack for photography, if it would not mortify him. He looked upon journalists of any kind--whether writers or photographers--as scandal-seeking hacks. And she would sooner call him a vigilante than a member of the free press. 

She felt tempted, however, to sing his photographic praises, just as she felt every temptation to laud his character, habits, and tendencies to anyone who cared to listen. She had nearly spilled the secrets of their life together when a colleague had inquired after the activities of her weekend. She had become breathless, then, with a rush of happiness, to describe the scent of Edmund’s hair, the way he pressed his lips together and smiled when he was caught without a response, how his jaw fell and his mouth opened when his wit failed him. She’d had to suppress the urge around friends and strangers alike to recount the way he used scraps of paper he found in her house to make notes about ongoing cases, how he fell asleep with his right arm raised above his head, and the way he scratched at the end of his eyebrow with his middle finger when he was in either a contemplative or bothersome mood. 

She merely smiled and, with the lightest touch, traced the line of Edmund’s photographed spine. 

But, as she browsed the printed evidence of their last four weeks, she lamented over the fact that no photograph showed the two of them together. She imagined the moments they spent together, ones that no camera ever captured. Their legs tangled together like vines on an ancient stone building, warm and lazily restless with post-orgasmic bliss. His hands sandwiching hers as he told her in a breathless voice that he must go and try to track down his Sergeant--lost to the city’s streets after the sudden death of his wife--but that he loved her, would miss her, would think of her, and come back to her as soon as he could. She had kissed him hard and deep. Her tongue had pushed past his lips and tasted him. Her palms had pressed against the sides of his face. The pads of her thumbs had painted his cheekbones with longing and worry and love. 

She had not seen him since. 

The long absence prompted her to carry his photographs with her. She brought them to her office. For most of the day, she stowed them away in her top desk drawer. But when her work ended, she fished for them and laid them across the blotter of her desk. She slouched in her chair, biting her lip as she raised to her face one photograph after another. A close-up of Edmund’s hands as he scribbled out a letter to his mother, who still resided in Kent, alone after the death of his father. A quiet portrait of him fixing dinner for the two of them--an expertly-baked fish pie that night, she remembered. Another of him asleep, this time on his side, both of his arms hugging a spare pillow. She easily recalled how he had held her in the same way, in his sleep, both arms clasped around her, his face turned into her shoulder, his steady, even breaths warm on her skin. Comforting. Bestowing more happiness than she had felt in the entirety of her memory. She had always played with his hair, or dragged her forefinger along the line of his jawbone, or traced the curve of his back, her chest warm and tight, as if a hot, molten rock had been lodged there. 

A part of her was ashamed that she missed him. That she longed so desperately to see him. To hear his voice. To hear his laugh, pulled from his throat as if he were reluctant to release it. 

So when he burst into her office, she had no mind to feel put-upon. Her cheeks stretched with the smile that spread across her face. 

“Edmund,” she said, and nothing else. 

He stepped across the space between them with speed and, before she could draw a full breath, he gripped her hands. He gave off a hurried, intense air. Her head listed toward her shoulder and her brow wrinkled with concern. 

“Edmund. What’s the matter?” 

He gulped at the air. “Jane, I--I’m afraid I may not see you again for some time.” 

She blinked at him. “What--why? You have already been absent these--”

“I know,” he said, squeezing her hands. “I know. And I ask your patience. My Sergeant is still missing and internal corruption has made me--”

“Internal corruption?” Jane asked, alarmed. “In _your_ division?” 

“No,” he replied, swift and firm. “No, but within the Metropolitan force. And I must see to it that--”

She nodded. “No. Of course. I understand.” 

“You do?” He searched her eyes, skeptical. 

Again, she nodded. “I do.” 

His grip relaxed. His expression softened. He stepped closer to her and, pushing a curl of hair behind her ear, he whispered to her, “I love you.” 

Then he kissed her. He rested his hands on the curve of her hips and opened his mouth to her. 

She ended the kiss, pulling away and settling her hands on his shoulders. “You will let me know when this business is over?”

He nodded, his face twisted with the anguish of his imminent departure. 

She kissed him again before he left, feeling the up-and-down stutter of his chest as he breathed, and closing her eyes when he broke away to press an iron-hot kiss to her neck. He squeezed her waist as if he hoped to take a piece of her with him. 

And as she watched him place his hat on his head and leave, she felt a part of herself leave with him. 


	6. Surely Even You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane's photographs are stolen from her office. Edmund tracks them down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you to everyone who has read this, followed this, and (especially) commented. It means so much to me. <3

“Edmund, a word?”

In the course of a frantic day, the last voice Edmund expected to hear echoed presently in his ears. Swinging his head up to look upon its owner, he found Jane poised in front of his desk, as if a lioness ready to strike her prey; she peered at him with narrow eyes and a hardened face, holding herself in a stiff posture. 

He placed his pen beside his paper--a letter to the Chief Inspector--and leaned back in his chair to impart both an air of ease and to put additional distance between himself and the perturbed lioness. 

“Of course,” he responded, cool and nonchalant. The tone took effort. Shaky nerves threatened to betray his act of feigned-composure. He folded his hands in his lap, careful to keep them loose, to render a more convincing portrait. 

Jane pushed his office door shut, making no attempt to dampen its subsequent noisy slam. The blinds clattered. She didn’t flinch. 

“Edmund,” she said, pacing a slow path around the edge of his desk. 

His upper body veered away from her, but his eyes remained fixed on her. He sensed trouble. 

“You did not, I assume,” she said, her voice stoney and rough, “enter my office without permission and take a collection of--” Only now did she falter, as if she thought better of her inquiry. When she continued, she did so with her fingertips on his desk--as if for balance in a precarious position--and her voice soft, like the delicate, silk-like petals of a peony. “A collection of photographs that I had in my desk drawer.” 

Peonies. Her favorite flower. He remembered. “No. No, why would I do that?” 

In a half-instant, she sagged. Sat on his desk. “I don’t _know_.” It was as if she had _hoped_ that he had stolen into her office and stolen her things. 

“Why would _any_ one--”

“ _Some_ one did!”

“But why?”

She turned her eyes on him as though he were an idiot. 

“No. Right,” he said. “You don’t know. Of course. That is...why you’re here.” 

“Indeed,” she said, weary and tired. Her spine curved, and she threatened to topple off his desk and onto him. 

He propelled himself from his chair and wrapped his arms around her, supporting her, his face pressed to the curve of her neck. She smelled of lavender and sunlight, and he inhaled the scent, allowing it to imprint a deep sense-memory into his brain. 

A strong feeling of love permeated his body as he held her. It shook him, made him squeeze his eyes shut tight. Still with his nose brushing the skin of her neck, he whispered, “What happened, Jane?”

A long breath left her. “Someone broke into my office.” 

“When?”

“Yesterday.” 

“And they took?” 

“Photographs.” 

“Nothing else?”

“No, nothing else.” 

He pulled back to look into her face, finding it twisted and lined with a silent apology. “What?”

“The photographs, Edmund.” Her voice rose in both volume and pitch. “They were...they were of you. Most of them.” 

He stared at her. _Of course. Of_ course. “Your…photographs. The ones you took.” 

She nodded. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Edmund.” 

Panic nearly suffocated him. He released her and stumbled backwards. He could imagine the journey of those photographs. From her office to a newspaper editor. To a printing press, then a morning edition, situated beneath the headline: INSPECTOR REID’S CORRUPTION. 

For weeks, his eyes had been turned toward another. He had been focused on Inspector Shine’s capture, on Flight’s testimony, on Drake’s recovery and reinstatement. He had not given any thought to his own implication, on what Jane’s photographs--in the hands of another--might mean for the both of them. He marveled at their collective stupidity. At their short-sightedness. 

“No, I’m... _I’m_ sorry, Jane. I...I have to go.” He squeezed her arms and ran from his office, leaving her there. 

He bolted down the stairs and out of the station house, sure of his destination. His hair flapped in the breeze as he ran; in his haste, he had forgotten his hat. But he cared not. His mind was fixated on the man who--he was _certain_ \--possessed Jane’s photographs, who was probably lying them out on a grid, a mock-up to be printed. 

“Best!” he shouted, bursting through the doors of _The Star._

His heart threatened to beat its way through his breastbone as he mounted the stairs and trampled his way to Best’s office. 

The door was open, and Edmund strode into the office, focusing his rage on its only occupant--a young man of no more than twenty, floppy pieces of paper in his hands. 

“You!” he shouted. “You, there! What do you know of the break-in at Councillor Cobden’s office?” 

A quiet voice in Edmund’s head advised him to pipe down. He was being reckless. He was sharing too much. It was possible that the “ _reporters_ ” at _The Star_ were, as of yet, ignorant of the incident, but Edmund advanced on the youth, paying no heed to his own internal warnings. 

Before he could lay his hands on the boy, the scuffle of worn shoe-soles drew his attention. 

Best stood in his own office doorway, his eyes wide and his mouth open with shock. “In--Inspector Reid,” he stuttered. “What a surprise.” 

“Oh,” Edmund said, whipping around so fast that he nearly lost his balance. “Is it? I thought you might expect me.” 

With those words, Best seemed to inflate, as if he hoped to take up every scrap of space in the doorway. 

Edmund squinted at him, then launched himself toward the door. 

Best spread his arms out. “No! No! Mr. Reid! Please!” 

“Please, _what_?! Hmm, Mr. Best?” All the while, Edmund fought to break through Best’s blockade. The man, though small in stature, was scrappy, and he swatted at Edmund to keep him back. 

“It is just--we did not _approve_ of those photos!” 

 _“What_ photos?!” 

“Oh, come now, Mr. Reid. I assume those photos--or rather, their exposure--explains your presence here, now.” 

Edmund steered a sharp, _violent_ look in Best’s direction. “You will let me pass, Mr. Best, or--” 

“Or _what_ , Inspector? You will have us shut down?” 

“Yes, perhaps, yes!” 

“Then it would not be the first such threat I have heard in my tenure here.” 

Edmund had half a mind to issue compliments to Best for his determination and steadfast defense of his publication. But he managed to calm himself, to stand straight, his shoulders relaxed. He pushed his hair back and drew a deep breath. “If you did not approve those photos, Mr. Best, then how did they come to be in your possession?”

Best set his jaw and met his eyes. After a long stretch, he replied, “My clerk. He is...set upon impressing me.” 

“Your _clerk_?” Edmund’s mind centered on the image of the young man who occupied Best’s office when he first entered it. “You mean, the young man who was here, just now, when--” 

“I will not reveal--” 

Edmund rolled his eyes--and his entire head. “Oh, _please,_ Mr. Best.” 

“I cannot--” 

“You will _fire_ him, or else you will never go _near_ myself or Miss Cobden ever again unless you--”

Best raised his eyebrows, refusing to back down. “Oh. _Oh!_ Is this about _her,_ then? These were--don’t tell me these were _taken_ by _her_?” 

Edmund dropped his eyes, his face, his head. 

Best _tsk_ ed loudly. “Oh, you know how well scandal sells, Inspector. I cannot possibly allow--” 

“This is no _scan_ dal,” he spit, bringing his face to within an inch of Best’s. He saw his own reflection in the sheen of Best’s eyes. Best did not deserve the information--the insight--he was about to share, but he saw no other way of dissuading him. Of _appealing_ to him. “This is nothing but two people--” 

“Oh, I would not call a politician and a policeman _people,_ Inspector.” 

Edmund filled his lungs, slowly and deliberately. “I love her!” 

The words had the desired effect. Best stepped backward, nearly tripping over himself. When he finally found his footing, he stared. “You _love_ her?” 

Edmund steeled himself. “Yes.” Then he slumped. He allowed the true nature of his breath to leave him--uneven pulses of air. He let his head fall to the side and turned pleading eyes toward Best. “Surely, even _you_ have loved another.” 

Best nodded, uncharacteristically genuine and serious. 

“Even one who, perhaps, posed a personal risk? One who you’ve loved...against your better judgement?” 

For a long time, Best stared at him. His chest heaved with his breaths. 

Edmund hoped that he had reached him and spoken words with which Best could somehow sympathize. Edmund waited, holding his breath, blinking at Best. 

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Best reached into his pocket, extracted a stack of photographs, and extended them toward him. “Haven’t we all, Inspector?”

Before Best could change his mind, Edmund snatched the photographs from Best’s hand. He did not look at them, but buried them in his own pocket before raising his gaze to Best’s face. His mouth opened and closed several times. He gathered his saliva and swallowed. He shoved his hand into his pocket to ensure the photographs were still there. 

“Can I…” Edmund cleared his throat. “Can I…” 

“An exclusive interview with the good Councillor.” 

Edmund shook his head. “I cannot make promises on her behalf.”  

“But you will encourage her?” 

He paused, fingering the corner of a photograph. He wondered which one it was, and nodded. 

“Thank you, Inspector.” 

When he returned to the station house, he sent a message to Jane without delay. 

_I retrieved the photographs. Do take greater care in guarding them--and others you may take--in the future. I love you. I will deliver them to you tonight, if that pleases you._

He arrived at her door at half-past seven, photographs in hand, and meekly uttered, "You would do well to give an interview to  _The Star_. When you get a chance." 


	7. World Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane wants just one more photograph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's followed along, read, left kudos, and especially left comments. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. It means so much to me, especially in such a small fandom. It honestly helps keep me going. (I know, write for yourself, and I do, but I also write for you, out there, and I truly hope you enjoy.) 
> 
> Lots of love to you! 
> 
> This wraps up this story! I have another Ed/Jane fic in the works--quite long, too! I hope you'll mosey on over to that one as well, once I start posting and stick with it. It'll go for a good 25-30 chapters and will be set after the series ended. Thanks again for having a gander. *hugs and kisses*

“You’re late.” 

Jane hoped her teasing tone would register with Edmund, who stood before her threshold, his hat already in his hands. 

“Yes, well,” he said. “Anyone who goes toe-to-toe with Fred Best usually requires additional time to recover from the encounter. In my experience.” 

With a playful smirk, she opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Yes, well,” she echoed him. “I am not _any_ one, am I?” 

A tight-lipped grin spread across his face as he shook his head. “No. No, you’re not.” A breeze swept past him, catching his hair and suddenly making him look as though he had recently tumbled out of bed. 

In that moment, Jane’s head filled with memories. She blinked and shook them away, back into her subconscious. Her face, however, flooded with heat. 

To mask her reaction, she ushered him inside, sharing the details of the end of her interview. “I told Mr. Best that, if he or any of his representatives were found lurking around my home or office, he would find _The Star_ shunned in favor of its competitors.” She beamed, recalling the gob-smacked expression on Best’s face as she’d floated out of his office, victorious.

Pride and admiration laced Edmund’s smile. She watched it morph, watched him with fascination as he bit his lower lip, the corners of his mouth still upturned. In her sitting room, the curtains at the window shifted aside and admitted rays of sunshine, which fell onto his face and made the colors of his eyes, his lips, his hair pop into prominence. Blue, pink, and rich shades of brown--a pleasing palette, one that made her fill her lungs with a slow breath.  

As she exhaled, she stepped toward him and spoke, but he uttered her name at the same time. 

“Edmund, I know I should--” 

“Jane, I--” 

He snapped his mouth shut, while she let hers remain open, uncertain but anxious to proceed.  

“Please,” she said, purposefully refraining from contact. She knew its power and she wanted to wield it at a precise moment. “I would like to speak first.” 

He bowed his head and, with a sweep of his hand, indicated that she should continue. She noticed that he clasped his hands together, twisting them, his apprehension visible in the ridges of his bones and tightness of his skin. 

She smiled softly, hoping to ease his nervousness. “I only wished to say that I believe my time as an amateur photographer has reached its end.” 

When he tilted his head and peered at her with puzzlement, she added, “I enjoy it. I do. But photographs, mementos, even moving pictures--even _those_ , they are not _life._ ” She took one step closer, maintaining unwavering eye contact with him, and lowered her voice. “That is what I want, Edmund. What I want with you. A life.” 

Finally, she eliminated what little distance remained between them, raised herself onto her toes, and slid her arms around his neck. Warm, deep gratification leapt through her as his eyes fell closed and his mouth opened to release an unsteady breath. She let her head fall to his shoulder, allowing him to gather her against him, his hands flat on her back. 

And without needing to push him to speech, he whispered the words she longed to hear, his voice heavy with conviction. “I want that also.” The tip of his nose brushed the side of her neck, and when he spoke it was as if he considered the consequence of each word; he pushed them off his lips one by one, purposeful and deliberate. “I want a life, Jane, with you.” 

She allowed his words to float in the air for several minutes. As the words embraced them like the invisible arms of an ethereal guardian, Jane pressed herself closer to him. She traced the lines of fine, baby-soft hair that trailed down the back of his neck, on either side of his spine. She fit herself into the angles of his body and felt him respond. His body moved, expanded and contracted, with faster breaths. His mouth--open, soft, and warm--slid across her neck, leaving a sloppy streak of kisses on her skin. 

She could have stayed that way. She could have stood there with him until she grew heavy with sleep. But she hadn’t finished, hadn’t voiced all that she had wanted to say. 

With reluctance, she pulled away, although her hands lingered on his arms, then strayed to his hands and held them. “But before I retire my camera”--she spoke through a smile--"I would like to capture one more photograph.” 

As before, Edmund tilted his head with an unspoken question. 

“Of you and I, Edmund. Together.” 

When the idea had first occurred to her, no one in the world had known of their relationship. No one but the two of them, and Martha. But now, in addition to her housemaid, those who knew of their involvement included Fred Best, who had seen physical evidence of their intimacy. Before Fred Best had laid eyes on that evidence, she had imagined a reality in which Edmund would welcome the idea--a photograph of the two of them. Now, she offered the proposal with hesitation. 

So when Edmund squeezed her hands and nodded--when a shy, flattered smile stretched across his face--she nearly burst with relief and happiness, and called to Martha before he changed his mind. 

Jane chose the sofa, situated opposite the window, for their portrait. Edmund looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She rested her hand on his thigh. Martha waited, camera poised, as Jane glanced at Edmund’s face and found that it bore a neutral, family-portrait, long-exposure expression. 

“Edmund,” she whispered. “Smile, darling, or I shall make you.” 

He emitted a quiet snort. She couldn’t blame him. She knew his daily life included threats from all manner of street-scum, but she liked to believe she possessed a certain amount of gravitas that he could not dismiss. 

Dismiss her, however, he did. “ _Make_ me?” He scoffed. “Good Lord, how on earth do you propose to--” 

Without warning, she delivered a swift jab to his ribs with her forefinger--a spot known to her to be ticklish. One of the small pieces of intimate knowledge she hoped to build upon in the future. 

He bent away from her, but instantly smiled--big and toothy--as a bark of a laugh jumped from his throat. Grasping hold of her wrist, he turned his head to look at her. Jane answered his smile with her own, delighted at her success. 

His smile remained on his face as Martha lowered the lever of the camera and captured a picture. Jane continued to hear the sound of the camera’s shutter but, with her attention on Edmund’s face, she lost count of the number of times Martha had snapped the lever downward. 

Weeks later, when she received the developed photographs in her letterbox, she discovered that Martha had captured several photographs when her attention had been elsewhere. She had been conscious of the first, when she and Edmund had looked at each other and traded natural smiles. She had even been aware of the second and third, both similar to the first, but there her awareness had ended. 

The fourth photograph captured a kiss. She remembered it as she looked upon it—a light, fast kiss, but one that had occurred mid-laughter, transferring love and joy from lip to lip. 

The fifth depicted their faces, finally turned toward the camera. Jane leaned on him, her mouth open and wide with a full smile. One of her arms curled around his back. The other was draped across herself, her hand lying on Edmund’s hip. Edmund’s cheeks, although pictured in tones of grey, were darkened with color, appearing youthful and plump as he smiled—breathed with silent, happy laughter, Jane remembered. His arm had never moved from around her shoulders, keeping her close. Closer in this photograph than any of the others. 

She made a mental note to frame them—the first, fourth, and fifth photographs. 

Edmund was due for dinner in fifteen minutes. Otherwise, she may have framed them then and there. As it were, however, her anticipation centered on the _real_ Edmund, rather than the one captured on paper, and her anticipation bloomed into excitement when she heard his knuckles strike her door—three times in rapid succession—as was his custom. 

  
In accordance with _her_ custom, she welcomed him with a kiss, one that caused them to bypass dinner and, with their hands scrambling to undress one another, instead tumble breathlessly onto her bed—dinner, photographs, the entire _world_ forgotten.


End file.
